The Look
by butterfly-pieces
Summary: Uhura finds herself completely drawn to her instructor. One-Shot.


**Author's Note: **Let it be known, I re-wrote this three times. That means it got completely deleted (from top to bottom) two times, before I was somewhat satisfied, because in part, I'm still not satisfied *facepalm* For some reason, I can write Spock fine in my head, but my first attempt at Uhura, and I'm burning braincells. Dandy. Oh, and the poem is a little poem I saved from when I was teaching in a High School (part of my college and B.A. criteria) and I just thought it fit enough to share.

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><p>"<strong><span>The Look<span>**"

_Stephen kissed me in the spring,  
>Robin in the fall,<br>But Colin looked at me  
>And never kissed at all.<em>

Stephen's kiss was lost in jest,  
>Robin's lost in play,<br>But the kiss in Colin's eyes  
>Haunts me night and day.<p>

- **Sara Teasdale** –

Uhura is not without experience when it comes to men.

She's familiar with their advances, and even more so on how to entrap one, but a feeling that is completely new to her is the one of being captured by someone who never even meant to throw the net.

It only took one look — one look — and she found herself drawn.

Commander Spock is not only a man of academic brilliance, but the very essence of who he is — half-human, half-Vulcan — is absolutely fascinating.

How he speaks, how he delivers each word, how he stands, and how he very well breathes, is something Uhura can't help but observe and praise, finding herself completely besotted by someone who clearly is too high above for her to reach.

So, she experiences her Academic years as any student would, with an obvious dedication, but the occasional ear for play. The men in the Academy don't hold her interest for long, and while they're all seasoned men, with aspirations, she finds that their conversation is usually limited to one topic, whereas she usually likes to explore more — everything.

Like the universe, conversation should be infinite.

She never had imagined she'd find all that in her unattainable Commander Spock.

Their first conversation is sparked by the fact that most Cadets are terrified of their Vulcan instructor, and had preferred to ask Uhura — the known lover of Xenolinguistics — for help, and the good Commander had been passing by, witnessing the way she conducted her informal lessons.

It wasn't then when they spoke, but it was when she became aware all the things his stare could deliver when his mouth wouldn't move.

She then chose to follow him to his office — to apologize, for the most part, because she had been doing what should be his job, if only he wasn't so intimidating to most people — and what greets her there is the most unexpected of scenarios.

Commander Spock is not angry, but rather calm, and respectful in his welcome to her. He asks her how exactly her fellow classmates were doing under her tutelage, with an air of genuine interest and, at first, she's too lost in his eyes to answer, but when she does, she's honest, and tries to be as humble about it as possible.

That's when the position of his aide is offered.

Commander Spock, according to what Uhura had learned, rarely took on an aide and, when he did, they'd have to come with high recommendations before he even considered looking them over. Uhura knew she was on the list of the few, but to receive a personal request, from the man himself, was astonishing, and left her as breathless as he had that first day.

Working next to him doesn't facilitate matters in her mind.

The conversations with him are never-ending, both as his aide and as something else. They find mutual interests — music, dialects, cultures, and the vastness of space, among other things. It's as if she's finally found someone for whom the word 'boring' doesn't need to exist anymore.

And then he looks at her, one night, late in the lab, when she has her cheek resting on her hand, and she notices the stare — that same stare — the one he often gives her seconds after she has answered one of his most difficult questions or postulated ideas of her own.

It's that same stare that has made her repeat to herself every night the words of why she shouldn't follow her attraction through — _**unattainable, impossible, unlikely, and definitely not mutual**_— but in the late night of the fall, she forgets to think of all those things and simply acts by staring back at him and smiling.

She's not sure why she smiles, if it has meaning, if it's meant to encourage and, if so, what? But she does, and it doesn't surprise her that he doesn't smile back.

He goes back to his work on his side of the lab, and she does the same with hers, pretending she's focusing intently on the symbols within the PADD when she feels a large, warm hand over hers, and her heart stops.

She looks up — it's almost a struggle, a battle against gravity, to force her head to move — and sees him again, inches away from her, looking at the PADD she's no longer looking at, and when it's obvious she's not looking away from his face, he meets her eyes, and it's that look again.

It's the look that sees, but doesn't say.

It's the one she fell in love with.


End file.
